


perhaps it takes courage

by Scrivoio



Series: east of eden [2]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Superman (Comics), Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Abandonment, Bruce Wayne Has Issues, M/M, References to Depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-05
Updated: 2020-11-05
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:22:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27408025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scrivoio/pseuds/Scrivoio
Summary: “I lost him, Clark,” Bruce says, voice cracking, “Not in the way I thought I might, but I still lost him. In some ways, this is almost worse.”“I know,” Clark says. And he does, kind of. He knows what it is to be on top of the world, eye-to-eye with skyscrapers, and be leveled by loss in a single heartbeat. Even still, he’s not sure he can ever understand Bruce’s pain. Clark, at least, still has Ma and Pa back in Kansas to remind him of his childhood, and he’s got Lois in Metropolis to remind him of where his home is, and he’s got Diana to remind him that even gods are human sometimes.Bruce used to have parents. He used to have friends like Thomas Elliot and Rachel Dawes. Now, everyone in Bruce’s life has either died or drifted away. Even the thought of that kind of isolation is enough to make Clark’s chest heavy with the insurmountable weight of loneliness that no one man should ever have to bear.
Relationships: Batman/Superman
Series: east of eden [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2000494
Comments: 3
Kudos: 37





	perhaps it takes courage

**Author's Note:**

> "Perhaps it takes courage to raise children..."

When Dick is nineteen, he outgrows Robin. Everyone has seen it coming for some time, now, so it’s not exactly a shock. He and Bruce both have abrasive, obsessive, dominant personalities. As Dick grew from a boy to a man, the tension between them grew and grew as the space they occupied refused to grow to accommodate both of them. Eventually, something was bound to snap. 

And, _boy_ , does it snap. 

It starts when Clark gets a call from Alfred on a Tuesday night. It’s nearly 10 PM and he’s at home, in a worn t-shirt and faded jeans, typing up a draft and watching Golden Girls with the volume on low. It’s a peaceful night, until the shrill ringing his cell cuts through the serenity like nails on a chalkboard. 

“Alfred? What’s wrong?” Clark closes his laptop gently, eyebrows furrowing. “Is everything okay? Is this a League thing? Is this about Bruce?”

Clark knows he’s asking too many questions, too fast. He’s never been more glad that Alfred has so much experience dealing with hyperactive children. The man has the patience of a saint. 

“It’s Master Bruce, sir. I am concerned that he is in a very bad way.” 

“Bruce? Is he hurt?”

Alfred sighs. “Not in the way I’m sure you’re assuming,” he says, “But, I suppose, you could say that he is hurting, yes.”

“I don’t understand, Alfred.”

“Master Richard has left us. He and Master Bruce had an awful fight, nearly came to blows. He packed his bags today and moved to Bludhaven.”

 _Oh._ “Is Bruce okay? Should I…” 

“I was thinking of driving out to check on Master Richard tonight. I hope it’s not too much of an imposition to ask if you’re willing to come over and keep an eye on Bruce while I’m out. God knows he can’t be trusted on his own.” 

God may have known that, but Clark hadn’t. Part of him almost wanted to laugh at the idea that the caped crusader needed a babysitter. The other half felt cold at the question of _why_. “Of course, Alfred. Of course. I’m flying in from Metropolis, so it might be ten minutes or so. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“Thank you, Master Clark.” 

“Just Clark, Alfred. Just Clark is fine; you know that.”

“Of course, Clark,” Alfred said, warmth evident in his voice even through the phone, “My apologies.”

…

Clark wasn’t sure what he was expecting when he arrived at the Manor. Alfred had warned that Bruce was in a “bad way,” but that could mean anything from pissed drunk to homicidally enraged. Upon brief observation, reality happened to be a lot closer to the former. 

Bruce was lounging in a sitting room, a glass of scotch in his hand and his gaze blankly fixed on the wall. He had stubble on his jaw, like he hadn’t shaved in a day or two, and his stare was hollow. He didn’t look sad. He looked like a man with nothing left to live for. 

Clark is startled when Bruce’s voice echoes through the room. He hadn’t looked up when Clark walked in, and so part of Clark has assumed that Bruce simply hadn’t noticed he was there. _Foolish, to assume that something as simple as that would get past Bruce, though._ “I lost him, Clark,” Bruce says, voice cracking, “Not in the way I thought I might, but I still lost him. In some ways, this is almost worse.”

“I know,” Clark says. And he does, kind of. He knows what it is to be on top of the world, eye-to-eye with skyscrapers, and be leveled by loss in a single heartbeat. Even still, he’s not sure he can ever understand Bruce’s pain. Clark, at least, still has Ma and Pa back in Kansas to remind him of his childhood, and he’s got Lois in Metropolis to remind him of where his home is, and he’s got Diana to remind him that even gods are human sometimes. 

Bruce _used_ to have parents. He used to have friends like Thomas Elliot and Rachel Dawes. Now, everyone in Bruce’s life has either died or drifted away. Even the thought of that kind of isolation is enough to make Clark’s chest heavy with the insurmountable weight of loneliness that no one man should ever have to bear. 

“He was my redemption,” Bruce slurs, “He was supposed to make it better. He was supposed to _be_ better.” 

Of course, Bruce would go pin something like his redemption—whatever the hell that meant— on a circus orphan. 

Clark knows it’s unfair to reduce Dick to that; Dick may have just been a circus orphan when Bruce first took him in, but he’s since grown into a man that anyone would be proud to have raised.

“He _is_ better, Bruce.” Clark makes his way over to the couch and settles next to his friend. “Dick is strong and independent and one of the best fighters in the world. He’s honest and kind and one of the most genuine, loving people I have ever had the pleasure of knowing. I’m proud to consider him my friend.” 

“He’s a good man,” Bruce says, eyes still fixed on the wall.

“He is,” Clark agrees, “And so are you.” Before Bruce can argue, Clark barrels on, “He lost everything, Bruce. He was so much like you, and I think that’s why you took him in. You saw a little bit of yourself in him, and so you wanted to help him however you could. And you did.” 

Bruce grunts, unconvinced. 

“Dick is a gift to the world, Bruce. He’s going to change things for the better. I _know_ he is. He has that fire inside of him, that fire that burns for justice and hope and a desire to do good for others. He’s a great man, and he’s one that you helped shape. Dick _is_ your redemption, but not in the way you think.”

Bruce breaks his gaze from the wall, then, and turns to look at Clark. His eyes are red-rimmed and bloodshot, shadowed by bruises that speak of sleeplessness and desperation. His gaze is piercing, like it’s scraping to the bottom of Clark’s very soul in search of a lie. Eventually, Bruce must see _something,_ because his gaze softens and his eyebrows unfurrow just a little bit. “I… I never thought about it that way.”

Clark smiled. “Dick was never really meant to save _you,_ Bruce. Not as much as he was meant to save the world. And you were meant to help him. And you have.”

**Author's Note:**

> comments are always appreciated :)


End file.
